Frozen (11 page)

“You look green.” Clipper has joined us at the railing.

“Nah,” Sammy says, smiling. “He’s pale as a ghost. The color’s drained out of him completely.”

“Not. Helping.” The two of them look so chipper I forbid myself to lose my breakfast. It figures that Bree would be right about the sea making me sick. Why did she have to be right?

“You think this is rough?” Clipper says. “Just wait ’til there’s a storm.”

Sammy grins. “Maybe we should put him in the lifeboat and drag him behind us.” He motions to a small boat strapped down on the deck that wouldn’t hold more than five people. “Then he’ll realize how good he has it, how this thing cuts through waves like a knife.”

They stalk off, laughing at my misfortune. I hate them for it, but at the same time it’s oddly comforting, that friendly sort of teasing. It’s almost as good as having Blaine around.

We celebrate the holiday over drinks. Isaac offers up a large jug of clear alcohol but refuses to join in the festivities.

“We mighta dodged that inspection back in town,” he says, “but that don’t mean the Order won’t flag us down out here if they have a chance. Navigating this ship clear of their standard routes is like threading a needle. But don’t let me stop your fun.” He turns toward the wheel, looking somewhat disappointed.

We should probably be more worried by Isaac’s words, but Xavier grabs the alcohol and we gather around the cramped table. I think we all just want to forget that there might still be a need to keep glancing over our shoulders.

“So anyone believe there’s truth to this Expats nonsense?” Sammy says as the jug makes its way from person to person. “That they’re AmWest citizens in opposition to Frank—sort of like the Rebels, only stuck on the other side of the border?”

Bo wrinkles his nose. “If they’re gathering compromising Order information and helping out the average AmEast citizen in the process, they certainly don’t sound like monsters.”

I tell everyone about May’s letter and the
Harbinger
. Isaac chimes in on the latter.

“That thing’s written by a bunch of Bone Harbor locals practically asking to be arrested. They hate the Order, always looking for ways to one-up ’em. I bet they’d fit in well with your lot. That tip about trading with Badger has saved me a ton of money, though. I hear he’s not even taking on new customers anymore; too busy.”

“If AmWest isn’t any different than the Rebels, why did they attack Taem last summer?” Emma says. I think back to the planes I saw from Union Central’s roof. “They would have killed so many innocent people if they’d been successful.”

“Maybe they thought it was a necessary sacrifice,” my father offers. “I’m not saying I agree with it, just that if their goal was eliminating Frank they might have thought it was their only option.”

“Questionable morals, if you ask me,” Sammy says, and then, as if it makes up for it, he adds, “At least they’ve got a ballsy name.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, the East referred to everyone in the West as expatriates during the War because the West
wanted
to secede. They were happy to renounce their country. But now, it looks like they’ve taken what used to be an insult and embraced it. It’s like a slap in Frank’s face.”

“It’s ironic, too,” Isaac says from the wheel. “Especially given their new slogan, how they’re saying fighting Frank is the truly patriotic act.”

The jug reaches me and I take a swig before passing it on to Bo.

“What about that virus they released at the start of the War?” he says. “Was that
patriotic
?”

Isaac shrugs. “My old man used to say revolutionaries and terrorists are one and the same. It ain’t logical, that theory, and at the same time, it is. Makes my head hurt.”

My father frowns, deep in thought. “That virus was released decades ago, so the people responsible are likely no longer the ones in charge. Maybe we don’t know as much about AmWest—about the Expats—as we think we do.”

Emma looks like she wants to bring up their air attack again, but Bree cuts in. “It just seems awfully suspicious to me. How these rumors and stories have started popping up all of a sudden.”

“We
have
been heading west,” Xavier points out.

Sammy taps the table livelily. “Yeah, maybe we’re hearing all this because we’re moving closer to the source. Maybe these stories die out before ever reaching Taem.”

My father raises an eyebrow. “And maybe Frank makes sure they die out.”

“Wait a minute!” I say, an idea slamming into me. “Remember when the Forgery laughed about our plans with Group A? He said Frank was giving us too much credit to assume we were extending our reach in the West. Well, maybe he meant the west-west. As in AmWest! Maybe Frank
knows
they’d make a good ally for us and that’s why he’s been so bent on stopping this mission.”

Everyone twists to face Jackson, who is slumped against the glass windows, looking bored. “You think whatever you want. Unless we revisit our deal, the only thing I’m giving you is a way into the Outer Ring.”

Owen stands. “I’ve got September scouring Bone Harbor over these Expat rumors, but maybe she should be trying to get in touch with Ryder instead. I’d love to know what he makes of all this.”

He scrambles for the radio beside Isaac, desperate to make a call before we slip out of range. Our speculations continue until the alcohol starts warming us, convincing us to trade serious talk for something more relaxed. When Owen rejoins us at the table, Emma suggests a game of Little Lie, or, as the Rebels call it in Crevice Valley, Bullshit.

We play for what feels like hours, everyone telling five supposed facts and the group attempting to guess which one is a lie. Xavier lets slip that he hates cats, and everyone shoves Dixie at him for the rest of the evening. Clipper and my father both admit to fears of heights, which I may have guessed about the boy, but not Owen. The story of how Sammy’s father was executed for forging water-ration cards in Taem somehow comes up, turning the mood sour, and Bree counters by sharing a handful of embarrassing things that have happened in her lifetime, many of which I wish I could unhear: rolling in poison ivy naked on a dare, wetting the bed once as a child, getting her first monthly bleeding while hunting and having to retreat home empty-handed for fear she was dying.

The team is laughing hysterically. Bree’s cheeks are flushed, but I’m positive it’s not from shame. She’s just let the alcohol get the best of her. We all have. I’ve drunk so many times in defeat that my head has started spinning. The bridge is blurry—the faces around the table, too. It’s all Bree’s fault. She keeps spotting my lies without any real effort and it’s driving me mad.

“I think that’s enough,” Isaac says, snatching the nearly empty jug back a while later. “I ain’t got a need for hungover help come morning.”

“Well, that’s what you’re gonna get,” Sammy mumbles. “At least in me.”

Owen hits him playfully behind the head and the group cracks up. I can’t remember the last time we laughed this hard. It feels good. I catch Emma grinning at me from the other side of the table, her smile inviting.

“Isaac’s right,” my father says. “Let’s call it a night.”

But my head has suddenly staged a revolt. Everything is spinning.

“You okay?” Xavier asks when I refuse to stand with the others.

I rest my head in my hands. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Bree says, her voice laced with malice.

“I’m
fine
,” I repeat. “I just . . . it’s too loud.”

Xavier’s laughter hits me like a raging storm and I shoo them away. Sammy’s hand goes to the small of Emma’s back. He’s been making a habit of that.

With the exception of Isaac at the wheel, I’m soon left alone. I thought the quiet would help, but it’s somehow making my head spin even more.

I’m going to be sick. I am finally going to be sick.

I get up and stumble from the bridge. My legs betray me on the steps to the main deck and I end up on my hands and knees. A pair of boots enters my vision.

“Well, aren’t you a sight.” Bree. The last person I want to deal with right now.

“I needed fresh air,” I manage as I climb to my feet. “It’s the boat. It’s making me sick.”

“You sure it isn’t the alcohol?” She’s blurry, dancing before me, but I can see well enough to note her smug expression.

“You’ve picked a real convenient time to start talking to me again.”

The
Catherine
lurches over a rough patch of water and I nearly fall. Bree grabs me at the elbow and helps me toward the railing.

“Just get it over with. You’ll feel better after.”

I grab the cool iron, hang my head over the edge. I need to throw up. I can feel it coming, but doing it in front of Bree seems like a terrible idea, like she’ll win some game I didn’t know we were playing.

I tighten my grip on the railing. “This is embarrassing.”

“You’re not the only one who drank too much,” she says. “You only think I’m sober because you’re too gone to know the difference.”

“It’s the boat,” I argue again.

A tiny smile. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I close my eyes, which only makes it worse. The deck seems to be moving beneath me, independent of the waves. I look out to sea and even the horizon appears to be bobbing around like a madman. The ship lurches again and finally, I am sick.

I do feel better when it’s over, even if only minimally. I wipe my face on my sleeve and turn toward Bree. She’s still a blurred version of herself, and she’s smirking.

“What? You think this is funny?”

She smiles wider. “Absolutely.”

“At least I didn’t throw myself at you,” I snap, thinking back to the last time Bree and I were drunk. I’d held things together while she begged me to kiss her and later got sick on my boots.

She scowls, vicious, furious. “I really hate you sometimes.”

“Yeah? Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

She spins so quickly her braid fans out, but when her arm finds the railing of the stairwell, she pauses. “And for some reason, I still love you,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “I hate you and I love you and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

My chest is pounding. From her, or that word, or the alcohol. I can’t tell which.

Not that it matters.

She’s already gone.

FOURTEEN

THE HEADACHE I HAVE WHEN
I wake is sharp and merciless, a pressure behind my eyes that pierces clear through to my temples. Everything seems foggy: my head, the room, the events of last night. I remember only snippets—laughter around the table, Emma glancing my way, Bree’s smug face when I got sick.

I’m lying in my bunk alone, my head pounding at the slightest of noises, when Emma walks in carrying a canteen. She glances at my bare chest, the floor, the wall, and finally sits near my knees.

“Water,” she says, holding it out.

I take a few sips and the liquid sloshes in my stomach. I groan and pass it back.

“I promise it will help,” she says. “You need to drink it.”

“Can’t you make me something for the nausea?”

“I don’t have even a fraction of the ingredients. You’re just going to have to fight it off with sleep and water.”

I sling my forearm over my eyes. In the dark, the pressure in my head feels less intense.

“You’ll be fine,” Emma says, her voice so soft it is almost a whisper. “You always are.” And then her fingers meet my skin, press against my forehead. I flinch, startled, and pull my arm back so that I can see her. She’s looking at me the way she had from across the table last night: almost playfully.

“You’re not warm,” she says, which surprises me because I’m sticking to the sheets. She leaves her palm against my forehead, staring at me like I’m a stranger, her mouth slightly parted. What feels like ages later, she moves, bringing her hand to my chest. At her touch, I feel a familiar ache between my ribs—weaker than it used to be, but still there, just barely, desperate to reach for her, to fix things.

“Emma!” Sammy shouts from above deck. “The Forgery keeps complaining about his wrists. Wants you to look at them.”

She twists to face the doorway, breaking contact with my skin. “I’ll be right up!” When she turns back to me, the space between us seems incredibly vast.

“I should go see what he needs.” She bites her lip, a small half smile sprouting, and hurries from the room.

Chest pounding, I climb out of bed, pull on fresh clothes. I should move, busy myself with something that will distract from my hangover. I don’t know if Emma has intentions of coming back, but it’s probably best that I’m not here waiting for her if she does. Especially when she didn’t wait for me.

No wonder we haven’t been able to move forward. I’m too busy basking in my grudge, dragging up things that have already happened and will never change despite how much I wish they could.

Jackson is tied to a railing, Emma’s medic bag at his feet. She, however, is nowhere in sight. The rest of the group is mopping down the deck beneath the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Bree notices me, and straightens up, scowling. I think I may have insulted her last night, but I can’t remember. I’m never drinking again. Not only does it confuse your brain, muddy your senses, and encourage you to embarrass yourself, but it insists on making you feel like absolute trash the following day.

I head to the bridge in search of my father and find only Emma, bent over an assortment of Isaac’s gear in the wheelhouse. The door closes loudly behind me and she jumps, dropping something on the table.

“Gray!” Her hand clutches at her chest. “Gosh, you scared me.”

“Sorry. What are you doing up here? I thought you had to tend to the Forgery.”

“Ran out of fresh bandages.” She holds up a fistful of material and I spot Isaac’s medical kit lying open behind her. “Well, I guess I should . . .” She glances out the glass windows at the deck and squeezes by me. My father enters with Bo and Isaac not a moment later.

“We’ll stay west of this peninsula,” Isaac says, spreading a map over the table. He taps at a protruding landmass between New Gulf’s two northern bays. “Should reach it by nightfall. Then it’s straight sailing up Border Bay ’til you depart.”